Pins and Needling

Today I wore a dress I have not worn since my father's funeral in July 2013. It's a very classic black jersey knit shirt dress-wrap-style, long skirt, 3/4 sleeves. I wear black tights and black boots under it. Very funeral appropriate, except the neckline is a tad too revealing without a pin.

I found a pin, but getting it situated without puckering and pulling the dress was arduous.

I flashed back to my teenage years when my mom would help me pin the necklines or straps out of the way. Even then with her help, it took a while to get it just right. We (or I should say "she") would work and work on it to make it the least noticeable as possible. It was a labor of Mom love.

I expect that I'll always remember little moments like that; at least I hope I do, and I hope my children have their own incidental memories for their middle years and beyond.

Mom is beyond helping me with anything now; I do all of the helping. Sometimes that makes me want to weep. Not because it's such hard work but because it's the necessity, the practical reality. And that's sad. I want her to be who she used to be.

Or do I?

You'll notice the second word of my title: needling. I meant that word to represent all of the times I struggled with my mom emotionally. She was pretty controlling and opinionated, determined to get her way, especially when it came to me and my appearance. My appearance was singularly important to her because her own was to her, and I was an extension of her.

When other mothers were trying to tone down their daughters, mine was trying to make me more attractive to the opposite sex.

It was weird.

First of all, it was like having a stage mom, but I was no starlet. Just average. I did not garner compliments every time I left the house like she always had growing up. To this day, she receives compliments when we're out, and she eats it up. I cringe. She had no career or anything besides her good looks and clean house on which to base her significance-very much a Mrs. Cleaver without the pearls. And so she passed her priorities on to me, only I resented them, most often. Occasionally it was ok with me because that meant I got new clothes, etc.

But I could not walk across the room without her telling me to straighten my shoulders. If I dropped something and picked it up, I had to bend my knees a certain way. If I carried a sweater or coat, it had to be draped across my arm, no bunching allowed. The rules were many, and she was like a giant eye, ever-watching.

One of the most irritating things she did was barge in on me in the bathroom. She had no idea we were two separate entities, no longer tied by the umbilical cord, even when I was older. If I locked the door, she tried to get in and ridiculed me for locking it. I wasn't doing anything sketchy, just PEEING, which I was not allowed to say, by the way.

This week I was in her bathroom, and in a split second, I had the most negative, ugly thought: "If she dares barge in here, I'm giving her what-for." It was like I was already angry, and she had not done a thing!

She cannot read her own mail now because she can't understand the difference between junk and legit mail. Plus she can't comprehend what she reads. So yesterday I came in with her mail, junk sorted. I was on my way to the trash when she stopped me: "What is that?"

"It's junk mail."
"Well, here, let me see it."
"OK."

Ten minutes later: "I guess this is all junk mail. I should've let you take it when you were on your way with it." And she tossed it on the floor beside her chair.

I was STEAMING. What's with the control??

And then I thought, "She's 89 and very weak. She does not have much control over anything in her life. Can you not let her pretend to read her stupid mail without getting upset?! GROW UP."

What is my problem? I've got issues. Being around her is causing me to face buried resentment alongside growing compassion.

So often I waffle between deep sadness, pity and compassion and then irritation when the more frustrating parts of who she was arise.

Is she a child or an adult? It fluctuates by the minute.

I am working on this internally and working on it externally by my responses.

Some mothers never noticed their daughters were around. Mine lived through me. Both methods breed contempt. But when she's needling, I'll try to remember the pins.  Because they are both a part of who she was and is, and she is my mother.

Re Social Media Fear and Shame: 5 Reasons I Take Issue with "The Video"

Is social media destroying our ability to connect in meaningful ways?

If you believe  this video's ominous message, which has been appearing in my Facebook newsfeed repeatedly, the answer is, "yes." 

Hold on. 

Ever heard of "Blanket Statements?" This video leaves me feeling like I want to throw a blanket over my head. Depressing.

Facebook is merely a tool, like a shovel. Perhaps you want to turn up a little ground to plant a Petunia. That's one use. Perhaps you want to turn up a bunch more to plant perennials. That's another use. Perhaps you want to dig a foundation. That's another. You can use a tool at different levels for different reasons. Most people are intelligent enough to know that turning up enough earth to plant a Petunia is not enough to build a structure. And so it is with Facebook. You can work the surface or build strong foundations and structures. And just as a person could become distracted by gardening to the exclusion of others' feelings and existence, so it is with Facebook. Or anything in life. So this video is not false, per se, but it does smack of hysteria.

Let's skip over things we learn on Facebook regarding hobbies, travel, health, etc. Let's go right to the challenge of meaningful connection (although I would argue that sometimes, those "incidentals" just mentioned are part of learning who someone really is). Here are five examples of why I cringe at this video and believe that Facebook can serve as the catalyst for rich experiences in life:

1. Meeting in "real life." Let's get this "real life" thing out of the way, ASAP. I have friends with whom I meet regularly for dinner with whom I'd fallen out of contact until reuniting on Facebook. We are extremely close and meet approximately once a month or every other month. However, some form of chat happens nearly daily. There is NO QUESTION that these friendships are real, and mostly, they happen on Facebook. But here's the thing: Suppose we never met in person. Does that lessen the significance of the relationship? My friends and I happen to share very deeply in private on Facebook and share more casually in person because of the environment (restaurant, movie, competing noise, etc.) So who can judge whether my Facebook friendships are real and meaningful except me and my friends? So I use the term "real life" because that's what others have used. To me, it's all the same. It's all real life.

2. Connecting with relatives. Regularly, often daily, I chat with those whom I've never met or met once or who live across the country. I know what is happening in the lives of my "first friends," my cousins, and my cousins' children! They feel like family instead of merely names. In addition, I feel connected to the families into which my kids have married, which I think is amazing. 

3.Celebrating and grieving with others. Instead of finding out six weeks after the fact, I often know when a friend is about to lose someone or has just lost someone. I know when a child is being born or leaving home for the first time. I may learn of a couple's plan to adopt. I can immediately decide which action to take to show support and love, be that a kind word on Facebook, a card, a visit during calling hours or a gift for a new baby or wedding. When my father died, the outpouring of love and beautiful tributes helped me move through the stages of grief and were available to me at 3:00 am when I would not have chosen to phone a friend.

4. Encouraging and inspiring each other toward goals and dreams. Are you dreading your daily run? Me too! Did you just finish a really difficult run? Me too! Did you just enroll in graduate school? Buy your first house? Start a new job? I am so happy for you! Begin a healthier lifestyle? How can I support you in that goal? --Is that not what real friends do for each other?

5. Having my beliefs challenged and eyes opened, spiritually, politically, socially, and learning how to discuss beliefs without losing friends and maybe coming away with a deeper appreciation for that person. I can't count the number of times I've become more compassionate because someone I know on Facebook is struggling with a particular challenge.

There will always be people who live inside their TVs, phones, video games, jobs, bank accounts, movies, latest health trends, pets' lives, children's lives, religion, social causes. There will always be people missing the mark with others, even the most socially conscious and plugged in to others. We could make an ominous video about any subject. We could become monks, but then we'd just be distracted by our robes and each other. Pretty soon, we'd be saying, "Does your robe do this weird thing at your ankle, too?"

For all of its faults and snares (after all--to keep the imagery going--you can assault someone over the head with a shovel) Facebook has helped me grow as a family member, friend and citizen of this world.

 Let's not forget that great quote by CS Lewis: "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, "What! You too? I thought I was the only one." 

It's just that sometimes, that quote takes this shape:  [Status Update] "My dog likes to eat avocados!" [Comment] "Mine does, too!" BOOM-a small moment of community. I'll take it. 

I personally love it all, the deep and the shallow ends of the Facebook pool. Be informed, yes. Swim where you like, and let others enjoy the water without worrying them about pruned fingers and toes. To that I will add, "LOL." 

On Missing People

This is not an original thought, I'm sure, but when I was running just a little while ago,  I realized the poignancy of being in human in this respect: we are able to miss things before they're gone--the love of your life before they say good night to leave you, a child before he is fully grown, and a parent before he dies. 

We were created to dread separation, crave unity and kinship, and long to share life.

I am missing some people. Some are already gone, and some are in the process of going. I miss them all. Sometimes, it all looks hopeless.

"But if we already have what we hope for, there is no need to keep on hoping. 25 However, we hope for something we have not yet seen, and we patiently wait for it. 26 In certain ways we are weak, but the Spirit is here to help us. For example, when we don’t know what to pray for, the Spirit prays for us in ways that cannot be put into words.27 All of our thoughts are known to God. He can understand what is in the mind of the Spirit, as the Spirit prays for God’s people. 28 We know that God is always at work for the good of everyone who loves him.[d]" ~ The Book of Romans

I am grieving, but not without hope. If I knew the ending of the story, there would be no call for faith or hope, and those are beautiful things you don't want to miss out on in this life. 

"Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story." I have hope for a happy ending. But I have faith for a great story. Holding on, holding on. 

When a Granddaughter is Born

These are the notes I took on my phone when Josie was born.

Katie said she felt stunned when Josie opened her eyes. What a moment--the first time you look into your child's eyes! And I have to say, Josie does have some gorgeous eyes. (Did you think I could just leave that moment be without a grandma comment?)

Katie's first words after Josie was born were, "I can't believe this just happened!"

The way I knew that Josie had finally come was that Shad sent this pic to our phones as we were in the waiting area. I said, "She's here!" and jumped up. So this photo of Katie holding Josie is my first look at my granddaughter.

Right after Josie was born, Katie told Shad to feel how soft Josie was.

Shad didn't get to hold her right away because the hospital facilitates a "golden hour" wherein mom and baby snuggle and nurse. He came out and said because he hadn't held her yet, he felt like he was "dying a little."


Katie remarked several times about how Josie puts her hands on/near her own face all of the time. She continued to do that at home.

While they were in the hospital, and just Shad and Katie were in the room, Shad danced with Josie to, "Why Don't We Just Dance?" by Josh Turner.

In the hospital, while Shad was holding Josie, I said, "She's going to be your whole world for a while," referring to their getting acquainted with Josie and all of the transitions that would lie ahead, and he looked down at her and said, "She IS my whole world now."

And here is my first-born, holding her first-born. 

O happy day, January 23, 2013.

Blog Clog And How Blogging Changes after 50

Every night when my head hits the pillow, I think about moments from my day that I'd like to record for "someday" when my organic memory is gone. There will come a time when I'll need to read about my days in order to enjoy those meaningful pauses in my life again. And maybe my grandchildren would enjoy the details, too.

But I hit a blogging snag a couple of years ago and just can't get past it.

I've fallen, and I can't get up.

It's a blog clog.

Every day, I start composing posts in my thoughts such as:

Once upon a time, there was a pregnant woman who had nowhere to go

and no one who cared about her and her twins, so we took her into our home.

Or

I'm in the long, tender process of saying goodbye to my parents.

Or

My child has had a child. I am a grandmother. 

Or

Once upon a time, I had three children whom I mothered ... adequately.

Then they grew up and moved away. I miss their voices and faces so much

that it's hard to look at pictures of our family from those years. 

But I don't get past those initial thoughts. 

These are BIG topics to tackle, and emotions wash in and out like ocean waves. Some waves are gentle, some are scary, melancholy, or bubbly (like the pic on the left)--delightful. 

Forward and backward, forward and backward, one recedes, comes another. The waves always bring in little treasures and take away little treasures. Sometimes I raise my head to the horizon, but I always feel the waves lapping at my ankles and shins, reminding me that everything is changing right under me. I can feel it. 

So I'm going to write about the little treasures that flow in and flow out. Maybe if I narrow things down, I can approach them and put them down for someday. 

But today, all I can do is write generally about the flow and change. Sometimes I'm just speechless. And that is when there is nothing to do but let the waves wash over me. 

Mugged by Muggers

Oh, how innocent they look.

But this morning, I was fixing their first bottles of the day, when all of a sudden I felt 40 hands pulling on my sweat pant legs. Then I heard a chorus of wails, completely synchronized: "WAIIIIIIL, {breath} WAIIIIIL, {breath}". I'd been hit by the shortest, swiftest gang in town.

They pulled my waist band down over my hip. De-pantsed me, if you will. Mugged, by the scoundrels pictured in the mug shot above. Has anybody seen this gang of two? Oh yeah--there they are! Headed for the outlets, cords and every other dangerous thing in this town.

Meet My Grandbaby

'
Well, here he or she is. I think he/she is waving hello to me. I love you, little grandbaby. Love, Nana

 "Nana" = combination of "Linda" and "Poor Nana" from Peter Pan:

Babies Who Live on the Edge of Danger

Here's what life feels like, times two, since both babies are crawling and pulling up. You probably won't have time to to watch or even want to, but for my future readers (like the twins when they're older) I hope this link works.

Dear Laylah and Josiah: You babies are making us nuts. You crawl from one danger to the next, seeking one thrill after another, getting stuck under tables, hitting your heads, putting your toes in precarious places and licking the floors of wherever you are. You're killin us. The worst one is you, Josiah, you who stiffens and falls backward because you can't figure out how to bend your knees and roll with it. You pull a book out of a shelf, and with the backward momentum of the book, you just keep going backwards! It's horrifying to watch from across the room, and we kill ourselves tripping over toys and furniture to reach you. Seriously, stop beating us up, Babies!

Breaking Drought

Like most of the Midwest, we've been in a drought. The only good thing about a drought is fewer mosquitoes.

Yesterday, the crunchy yellow grass that Zoe refuses to walk on ("L'il Tenderfoot") received a refreshing drink, like Niagara Falls. It was crazy. Parts of my city are now without power due to lightning. I was in the grocery store when the sirens went off, but for some reason, I was not alarmed.

Well, I was on a mission--a mission to bring home my daughter's favorite kind of yogurt cereal bar, the one I couldn't remember.

Background info: I bought a certain brand one week and she loved them. The next week, I tried to repeat this Great Act Of Motherliness for my beloved daughter, but I couldn't remember the brand and brought another brand home by mistake.

So yesterday, I texted her during the sirens and storm, "What was that original brand of yogurt bar I got you that you liked?"

She replied, "Idk. [I don't know.] haha."

I failed to see the humor, but I was, as I said, on a mission.

So I looked some more while people around me rushed to the front of the store to look outside and the employees were using mops to push water back out of the entry.

Whatever. I had bars to find.

So I texted her again about it, and she said, "Whichever is OK. I liked the 2nd one better, anyway."

Oh no. This meant I had to then go back to the aisle and retrieve the 2nd one.

So I sent one more text, and again, she replied with a bunch of "ha ha's."

I thought, "What is wrong with her. Why is my yogurt bar search so funny."

Later last night, she told me that when the storm began, she was sure I'd be "freaking out" worrying about her, so she texted me right away, "Hey, I'm at Heather's. There's a big storm comin!"

And apparently, my reply was, "What was that original brand of yogurt bar I got you that you liked?"

Then she replied with "Don't worry. I'm staying inside. Are you guys inside?"

And that's when I said, "Oh no. What was that 2nd brand?"

And THAT's when I got, "Hahahahaha."

If this conversation seems convoluted ... um, yes.

I NEVER saw any of her storm texts.

I'm just glad we all survived the big storm. I would hate to have my last words to my daughter be: "Hey, did you know it's waining?" (Trying to be cute.) Yes, she knew.

Station Wagon Memories

My dash read 102* today. The intense heat reminds me of childhood summers spent in the back section of a turquoise stationwagon without air conditioning. Blistering vinyl, trying to catch a hot breeze through the rolled down windows. Only bright spot was the radio and catching my brother's hand crossing the imaginary mid-line so that i could slap it or his arm or leg. Those were the days. It looked like this car. Just looking at this pic makes me think of Three Dog Night and Ross Grocery on Hoyt Ave and sweating.

Check out the song of the summer I remember the most:

Changes

It has been so long since I have written a post (6 months) that I couldn't figure out how to get to the dashboard.

Wow.  How things change in 6 months, or a year.

One year ago, my daughter's wedding was quickly approaching (June 18). There was a lot going on in my life then, no doubt, but the happenings were small beans compared to life a year later.

Since then, my dad's cancer has required hospice to step in. My baby left for college in August. Our niece and her two newborns moved into our home on Thanksgiving Day, and this week? Well, I lost my job, sort of.

Brother, can you spare some Status Quo? Some Serenity, Christopher Cross?



It hasn't all been bad, though. I still have Mom and Dad. My son is now engaged. My college daughter is happy with her school and friends. The married daughter has a new job that is more like a career than a job. The babies are the light of my life. Although my carpet will never be the same. I wish I had purchased one the color of ABP baby formula (Already Been Processed). Ew, I know.

And since soon I'll no longer be working, I can enjoy the sunshine in a way I haven't in 9 years. I can run when I feel like, and less whenever I can fit it in. I'm enjoying Facebook (why do I feel like an infidel for admitting that here on my blog?)


Maybe I'll have more time to blog. I had just about given up on it, but I will certainly have more time now. And although I've lost readers and doubted its relevancy to anyone, when I have occasionally looked back at a post for some reason, I'm touched by the details I've long forgotten and realize that someday, the posts will interest somebody, somewhere; I'm kind of hoping it will be a grandchild.


So Laylah, Josiah, or Grandchildren, I'm going to keep at it. I'm going to record the mundane and the humorous, the sad, the happy. And in the process, I think it will help me adjust to changes. I'm capturing moments that photos miss.


So today, I'm thinking of David Bowie's "Changes:"
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes 
Turn and face the strange 
Ch-ch-changes 
Just gonna have to be a different man 
Time may change me 
But I can't trace time 


I can't trace time? Maybe not, maybe so. I can someday trace my steps back through these posts and see life again, see the details I've forgotten. I think that is worth the effort of blogging again.

I'm Banded

Right now I am sporting two very fashionable bracelets--two paper bands around my right wrist, the kind that someone straps on you which must be cut off when you want to be free.

They are the kind you get in the hospital if you're the person (besides the mom of the newborns) who has access to the babies and can be with them alone while Mom showers or whatever.

I am the banded aunt-in-law to a young woman who just gave birth to preemie twins, boy and girl. Mom and babies are coming to live in our home when they leave the hospital; therefore, I am like next of kin, in a local, female, married-into-the-family, live-with-you way.

I am banded. This is monumental to me.

First of all, I'm scared. I'm scared about the whole thing, about a little family coming to live with us and all that that implies.

Secondly, I'm nervous. Nervous about losing sleep because 2 tiny newborns MUST be put on a strict schedule, and Mom is going to need help at 3:00am. I believe when one accepts the bands, she is expected to step up. Gulp.

Thirdly, I'm having mild anxiety attacks during the night and first thing in the morning when I wake up because--what if I fail--in any sense of the word--fail to help the mom, fail to do something essential for the babies, fail to remain loving, calm, cool, collected, fail to be wise, fail to represent how a person of faith behaves when she is stressed. So much at stake.

And then, I pick up one of the twins. And all of the periphery concerns, current events and hand-wringing seem to fade into a blurry background.



Can you tell that as I write this there is a knot forming in my throat choking back my tears and that my heart is speeding up? Because this is how I feel when I look at this pic even after having been with them all day yesterday and today.

I do not know how this will work out. It could be a colossal disaster. But it is happening out of love for the mom and her babies. May God step in and fix the things I screw up. (Please, God--just show up! HELP!)

So I am banded and bonded already, and they are just now 24 hours old.

Scared but hopeful.

Lost but trusting.

Anxious but committed.

Mostly, though, I just feel banded, not only at the wrist but in my heart as well. Not only to babies, but to Mom.

2 Chronicles 20:12 "Oh, Lord, we do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you!"

So, Welcome to the world, little ones. This is your crazy old Great Aunt Linda writing about you on her blog, which will someday seem as antiquated to you as the telegraph does to me. Just want to say, "You are loved." And thank you for the blog fodder I know you are going supply me with, beginning with the outrageous amount of poo you supplied us with today.

Brother on the left, sister on the right.

I'm a New Member of a Club!

What's up?!

It has been so long since I fired up this little blog that I forgot the user name and password to get in.

Then I had to look around to figure out how to post a new post.

How can something I did nearly daily for 5 years get so blurry so fast? My last post was only February.

In my defense, if you could view my life from my vantage point, you'd see that it is like one of those front loading washers with events swirling and swishing by, eventually circling around to the first event again, making you dizzy.

From March until yesterday, I have carried with me at all times 3 notebooks full of notes; one for my dad's medical notes because he was diagnosed with cancer, one for Kristin's graduation open house, and one for Katie's wedding.

Also, tucked away in Kristin's open house notes were notes for Jordan, who graduated from college.

So, yes, one very ill father, two graduates, one bride, pretty much within a month or two.

Swirl, baby, swirl!

I missed blogging about the details here, which I'm kind of sad about because I would have had "diary" entries of this time in my life to capture for later years, but I was just too busy or too exhausted to blog. Facebook status updates, those little 420 word blog posts, seemed to work fine.

But I have missed hashing out life on here, so I'm attempting a comeback, if you will.

What I want to say today, the day after my daughter's wedding, is that I now feel as if I've been inducted into a special club because this experience has been so rich, so frustrating, so emotional, so exhausting, that it's really difficult to describe unless you've survived it. Just like the former United States Presidents' Club, you can't know what it's like until you've held this office.

From now on, when a mom tells me, "My daughter's getting married," I will immediately empathize with her and join her "team." I know what lies ahead of her, and I will be there in person or on line with support--because the hazing for this exclusive club is rough! One moment you're happy, the next you're melancholy, the next you're frustrated, then overwhelmed, then just plain fried.

Nevertheless, yesterday proved joyful, meaningful and happy beyond words. Sometimes, you're so happy that something is over and yet so happy that something is beginning, all you can do is dance!

Texting

The other day, my youngest daughter texted me: "Ashley wants to go with us shopping for the senior ball dress. Is that OK?"

Because I was in a hurry, I replied, "Y."

At home she asked me, "Why did you say 'why?'to my question about Ashley?"

"I didn't say 'why,'" I said. "I said 'yes.'"

"No, 'y' is short for 'why.'"

"Then what is short for 'yes?'"

"'Yes' is short for 'yes.'"

"Well," I said, "that is kind of lame. You guys need to make a shortcut for 'yes.'"

"Y."

I'm not sure if she asked "why" or agreed, "Yes, we should."

Communicating with teenagers is tricky. Do you agree? "Y" or "N!"

Mom of Daughters, Nice Work If You Can Get It

My girls are neither girly-girls nor tomboys, just somewhere in the middle. On any given day, each leans one way or the other, and then her style preference changes.

Last night I took my youngest child shopping for a dress to wear to her Senior Ball next Saturday. Mission accomplished. Lovely short-length teal dress with some understated ruffles around the skirt and some bling at the top. Very much like this dress, only dark blue/green. Little silver shoes to go with. Very nice. Oh to be young and have everything you try on look nice, and you just pick the one you like most. It was fun to see the different dresses on my (excuse and forgive me for saying this, but I can't help myself in this moment of mother-pride) Living Doll. She's adorable. OK, enough of that.

There were other girls shopping for their dresses whom I enjoyed observing as well (which kids call "creeping on" or "stalking," but I had no malevolent intentions, so I prefer to say "observing what was happening right in front of my eyes"). Two girls brought their gay male friend (I know this about him because they all kept announcing it loudly) to help them select and try on dresses, acting as a sort of Randy Fenoli of Say Yes to the Dress of Kleinfeld's fame, only in a Deb chain store in a strip mall on the main drag of a small Midwestern town. The antics of that group were hilarious. But I did notice our Randy taking a few peeks inside dressing room stalls whenever he could, and it occurred to me: what if a straight kid posed as gay for moments just such as this: nice work if you can get it?

Tomorrow: Wedding gown shopping in Indianapolis for the other daughter!

I'm so happy for both girls, and yet I'm missing my little girls who played with Play-Doh and Fisher Price Little People. Hug your little ones today, Mom. When you wake up "tomorrow," they will be wearing formals and registering for gifts.

Big Sigh.

25 Years About to Go Down Da Drain With the Coffee Creamer

Dragged myself out of bed this morning, headed for the coffee, made the coffee in a sleep-deprived stupor, turned for the cream, couldn't find it, opened eyes wider, couldn't find it, shut fridge door and saw it sitting out on the counter.

My husband, and I use the term loosely this morning, was up late last night, very strange for him, and apparently made himself some coffee and LOST HIS MIND and forgot to put the cream back.

Ruined. Ruined. Ruined.

RUINED.

Cream is down the drain. Marriage is hanging only by a thread.

This is a day that will live in marital infamy for the next 25 years.

Flashback Friday: Discipline

You know, I did a meme for a while, so I know that it's tough coming up with consistently interesting conversation starters. I do not know how Linda meets this goal week after week. All I know is, once she opens up a topic, she does not leave you without 1 or a dozen jumping off points, which I so appreciate. Here's what's on tap this week; why don't you join in?

Were your parents strict, permissive, or somewhere in-between when you were growing up? Did you tend to be compliant or rebellious? What did you tend to get in trouble for doing? How did your parents discipline/punish you - spankings (and what did they use when spanking), revoking privileges, grounding, time-outs or some other manner? Did both parents handle punishment or did one tend to do it more than the other? (And which one was it?) Is there anything that you have admitted doing since you've been an adult that you got away with as a child? Or is there anything you were punished for that you have since learned your parents had to try hard not to laugh while they were meting out your discipline? If you are a parent, what is something you have done or not done (or vowed you would never do) as a result of your growing-up experiences with discipline?

My parents were, on one hand, strict, and on the other, permissive.

The religious denomination of my youth was very legalistic, so rules were a big part of my life. We did not buy on Sunday. We did not play cards. We did not do a lot of things.

You would think that such rigidity would flow over into things like dress codes, household chores, curfews, etc. You would be wrong.

It was a very complicated upbringing, but it was a loving one, and I was a mostly compliant, rule-following little girl.

Except for this one time and this one rule ....

My parents remodeled their living room and added a sprayed-on bumpy ceiling with little sparklies in it. I was quite fascinated by that bumpy ceiling. Quite. Fascinated.

My mom gave me a serious, stern talking-to about the new ceiling: "It must never be poked with a broomstick. It must never have toys thrown at it. It must never be approached without fear and trembling." OK, I made that last part up, but the ceiling, it was definitely something special. It had sparkles, you know.

But the main rule of rules about the ceiling was, "It must never, ever get wet. If it gets wet, it will melt and chip off, and we'll have to re-do the whole ceiling." I cannot communicate the somber tone of this warning. It was nearly a religious moment itself.

Now, my mom liked to talk on the phone. You remember those crazy phones with the three pound receivers and curly cords that tethered moms so that kids could run around just out of the reach of a swat.

Shortly after the Mt. Sinai exhortation about the ceiling, my mom got a phone call.

To this day, I do not know what possessed me. Like I said, I was normally a good kid. But I went and got a Windex bottle, climbed up on the furniture and began SPRAYING THE CEILING.

THE SACRED CEILING OF SPARKLES!!!!

I can hardly breathe just reliving the insanity of this act.

My mother got off the phone. She looked up, gasped, and after that, much of my life is a blur until about age 25.

Oh, the fear and trembling. Hell hath no fury like the mom of a mushy sparkle ceiling.

She began walking around the house, methodically shutting the windows.

Oh, the horror. She was going to spank me so hard she didn't want the neighbors to hear my wailing.

I was basically dying a thousand deaths.

Here is the honest truth: She yelled and yelled, but I do not remember the spanking (and there have been many in my life). I do not know whether she was just so shell-shocked that she did not have the physical strength to spank me or was afraid once she started swatting she couldn't stop, but I cannot remember being hit. I just remember the yelling and the windows.

That is one moment of discipline I will never forget. And you can bet I have NEVER sprayed a sparkly ceiling again. I live in mortal fear and reverence of sparkly ceilings.

Now I need to step away from this story, gather my wits and take some deep breaths.

And just in case I never said it, Mom, I'm sorry I desecrated the ceiling. If you will forgive me for that, I will forgive you for making me wear your big plastic rain bonnet on the bus to school in kindergarten. I think we're even.

Purty Trees and Sweet Ornamentations To You

Let's link up and tour around to see our trees and any special ornaments we might like to feature, OK?

Here's my tree at night. I know I'm missing a topper. The old one didn't match the new decor because we just painted the walls. They were taupe and cranberry; now they're brown and spring green:


Here it is in the daylight. Please note that I have wrapped gifts this early in the game; I am awesome:


And here is an ornament, hand-painted, by someone else, of my parents. They are about to celebrate 69 years of marriage on Dec. 16.




OK, those are my entries. Would you like to share? Please link to the post of your tree and/or ornament so we can see the loveliness. Thanks for participating!

Flashback Friday: Decorating for Christmas

This week Lid asks, "When you were growing up, when did your family put up and decorate the Christmas tree? Was it real or artificial? Who usually decorated it? Were there special decorations? What was on the top? White lights or colored, blinking or steady? How much did your family decorate for the holiday other than the tree (wreaths, dishes, snowglobes, miniature villages, etc.)? Did y'all do outdoor lights? White or colored, blinking or not? Are there special memories associated with decorating for Christmas?"

Here I am, Christmas, 1964, at my little piano which my grandmother gave me. You can see the silver tree in the background; we had that tree for most of my growing up years. My favorite part of Christmas decorating was the wheel of color that turned and shone onto the reflective tree. I would lie on the floor, listen to the whir of the wheel and watch the colors fall over the tree, onto the ceiling and down the wall, over and over. It was magical. Of course, back in those days, we didn't have sensory overload like we do now. I can't imagine anyone but maybe a cat doing that today. Even toddlers are bored by holograms and time travel.



Here I am with my youngest of three brothers, Donnie. He is 56 now. I love him dearly. I don't have many memories of actually decorating except feeling like I couldn't really do it to please my mom. She wasn't as into "hominess" as "prettiness." I get that now. She had to look at it for a month.

My daughter gave me grief this year because I didn't use any of my kids' homemade ornaments, and everything is color-coordinated. Actually, I couldn't FIND their ornaments even if I had desperately wanted to use only those.
And here I am at 13, with our sophisticated fake green tree. I thought it was the bomb-diggity. I loved that orchid sweater, too, my favorite color. I can tell by the hair that I was in 7th grade here, and madly in love with a red-headed 8th grade boy at my school. He lives in Philadelphia now.

Check out that gold crushed-velvet chair. Note the lack of lights. I'm not sure we had them on when I was young. I do remember some large ones outside around our picture window. That was about the extent of our decorating; Mom did not go overboard in baking or decorating for holidays. But I loved my Christmases and have very fond memories of footed pajamas, my bothers and their wives coming "home," and Elvis's Blue Christmas on our large console stereo, not my choice of music, but that's what I remember. I wonder how my kids will answer this question someday? ("She wasn't 'into' our ornaments ....")

It'll Nearly Be Like a Picture Print By Currier and Ives ... or Not

Just be glad I'm not cooking your holiday meals. Today it's a turkey for the Crow side of the family. Mr. Tom Turkey is in the oven, and I bleached the kitchen and myself up to my elbows. "Linda, what is that wonderful holiday aroma wafting from your kitchen?" "Bleached Turkey Sink."